


Burnt Stars

by thefifthchris



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Family Drama, Flashbacks, Gen, Infinity War spoilers, Odin (Marvel)'s Bad Parenting, Time Travel Fix-It, i guess i'll just add more tags as they come to me?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-05 05:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14610165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefifthchris/pseuds/thefifthchris
Summary: Thor is tired of losing everything. And when the universe spits him out in a time where he can fix it all, well, even Thor would be foolish to not seize the opportunity.Or, Thor becomes the king he was destined to be and has the power and knowledge to change things. Middle fingers up to your secrets, Odin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first fanfiction I've written in about...seven years? It's also my first ever on ao3! I have taken many a liberty with Norse mythology, the Thor franchise-basically everything, so please forgive any inconsistencies of canon/mythological material. This fanfiction is a very self-indulgent work because l love time travel and angst and I have a new appreciation for Thor as a character (though Loki is an old favorite of mine, the lil shit that he is). Plus, I've noticed a lack of Thor time travel compared to Loki so why not. Hope you enjoy!

 

When Hela crushed Mjolnir, Thor had thought she might as well have crushed his heart as well. 

His father had only just faded-leaving in his place the terrible revelation that there was yet _another_ family secret lurking under the glorious, golden sheen of Asgard's history. The betrayal from Loki's deceit had still stung even as anger and relief warred in Thor's mind. And maybe worst of all, it turned out Thor was the _middle child_ in a family of liars and deceivers. Seeing Mjolnir shattering, tumbling out of Hela's clawed grasp in dull, broken pieces, had only added to his grief. Thor had thought then, foolishly, _I will protect everything else I hold dear_. 

And then Ragnarok happened. And Thor would have gladly given up himself and Mjolnir to prevent it all.

Asgard, his palace and home, consumed by fire and reduced to nothing but ash. His own eye, swiftly destroyed in one of Hela's effortless strokes. Thor hadn't been strong enough to defeat Hela, hadn't been able to best her without the heavy cost of his kingdom. Again, he swore to become stronger, strong enough to be a worthy king. And as Thor walked to his throne-albeit more like the captain of a ship than a king, given the small Asgardian population left-he felt hopeful that one day he could become the leader his people needed. With Loki returned and the last Valkyrie at his side, Thor thought they could manage.

How foolish.

Not even one night later, with a sweep of his hand, Thanos cleaved half of what was left of Asgard; the other half left to be slaughtered by the Black Order. Blood and burnt flesh splattered the floor of the ship. Valkyrie-on the front lines because where else would she be?-had been a force of graceful destruction that stalled the Black Order long enough for a measly portion of Asgardians to escape, but even she could not hold out against magic older than the gods, could not stop the spelled spear that broke her defences and split her breastplate and body in two. Loki, who had been unrivaled in sorcery and required earth's mightiest heroes to defeat, was killed in a show of sheer, brute force. For once, Silvertongue could not lie his way out.

_A crushed windpipe, a snapped neck._

And Thor, the newly crowned king of his people, god of thunder, _Odinson_ , was used as a _hostage_ and confined by twisting metal and magic. As if he were a force not even worthy of death.

How arrogant-how stupid _-_ of him to think that he would be enough in a war against the cosmos. How weak and pathetic. Thor knew Odin would have been disappointed in his heir. As the ship rained down around him and space peeked through the broken bits of metal as a threatening void, Thor could only crawl to Loki's corpse, already cooling to the unforgiving temperatures of space. He had wept (for days, weeks, years? It mattered no longer.) and though death neared, sweet and cloying in his lungs, Thor could only feel grief and electricity and starlight. Something buzzed under his skin, followed by a flooding of heat and potent rage. The world burst around him. Pain, white hot and searing, so hot the universe might as well have had split and swallowed him for all he cared, filled Thor. Unconsciousness was a mercy.

Light, awakening, the oddest prodding at his pectorals. The Guardians, but they were only as arrogant and foolish as he. Thor couldn't stand being too close to them-who would want an omen of death lurking in their midst? They reminded him too closely of his other family, and Thor was struck with the swift and crushing realization of how _alone_ he is now with only a few Midgardians left as his friends. He had to at warn them of Thanos' strength (but how long had it been since he had seen the Avengers? Two years to him may have been two centuries, and time passed strangely enough on Sakaar to prolong the human lifespan of Banner.)

But. But that anger which had filled him as he was dying on the ship, which had left the burnt wreckage floating in space. That was something all too familiar. That all-consuming rage had nearly brought down Asgard many a century ago, and Thor knew it was only a matter of time before everything he was suppressing (every death and tragedy and ruin) would rise to the surface again. He was not about to become a time bomb amidst the Midgardians. Hardy and determined they may be, mortals were not made to withstand the unleashed might of a god, never mind a god with Odin Borson's blood. No, Thor refused to be used by Thanos as another potential weapon.

He needed another Mjolnir, another medium to focus that frenzied knot of power at his sternum. Just one well aimed blow, bolstered with his entire life force and power. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to stall Thanos and allow his friends to slay him. The sacrifice of a young god is a mighty thing after all. And then, finally, Thor could redeem himself of his failures and enter the golden halls of Valhalla.

 

Thor decided he need not live through this battle.

 

* * *

  

The forge is cold, empty of fire, but all Thor needs to do is withstand the force of a star and not die. Simple enough-if Death has not claimed him even when he wanted it to, a star should be nothing.

The rabbit is not half bad, he decides, and Thor adds on another friend to his roster ( _Another death_? A nasty little voice whispers in his mind to which Thor promptly slams away). And then, he's there, braced and ready for the blow. 

Thor has never been so wrong about something in his life-and _that_ is a hefty claim, given the centuries he fooled himself that he and Loki were having a fantastic and functioning brotherly relationship. He manages a strangled curse. The star hurts worse than when he had _died_ as a mortal.

It's light sinks into him, saturating his very being, and though his mouth opens to scream, no sound escapes. He's sure his gaping mouth becomes a black hole, swallowing galaxies and comets, because everything burns and hurts, and can burst stars truly kill gods? He's not sure if that thought is hopeful or despairing or just stupidly curious.

But in that bright pain, Thor's mind is clearer than it had been in ages, the storm clouds swept aside in a way that it has not been since thunder erupted beneath his skin, since lightning blossomed in his veins to make way for undiluted energy. The star burns through everything-flesh, thought, power-and Thor feels _relief_. Rest.

Asgard herself, come to claim and condemn her champion and greatest failure.

Darkness, and Thor loses all he ever was and ever will be as he hurtles into nothingness-falling, falling, falling, and by the gods, is this what Loki felt when he fell from the Bifrost? Is this the descent every warrior faces before entering Valhalla? Or perhaps Thor has just disappointed the universe so thoroughly, he deserves to be in Hel.

He lands, and the impact is jarring enough to feel as though his soul is being ripped out of his body. He's pretty sure something tears.

 

Valhalla sucks .

 

* * *

 

_Darkness._

 

_The screams of the dead and the living collide into one massive wail as he hurtles through space. A cataclysm explodes within his chest; his ribs break and crack, becoming a crooked gate of ash and bone for the empty cavity within him. It needs to be filled, but everything is numb and silent and unknown._

 

_He is floating. Weightless._

 

"-or."

 

_Death--or was her name Fate?--strokes a finger up the bone of his exposed sternum, trails a sharp nail along the vulnerable skin of his neck, pries open his lifeless lips with the gentlest of motions._

 

_She plunges headfirst into his gaping mouth, and she writhes in such ghastly pleasure and pain that he cannot swallow, cannot breathe, cannot even choke. Death, the wicked wraith, fills him like a plume of smoke, replaces the channels of empty veins with her dark brand of ichor._

 

_Her presence dissipates at the pit of his stomach._

 

"Thor."

 

_Her voice calls to him, a herald even in the nothingness, echoing in the empty chamber She has carved out in his ribcage._

 

_At times, it's a lullaby._ _Others, its a taunt, a dare, a croon, a promise._

 

_"How long until we meet again, Hero?"_

 

_And how odd, for there's sensation flooding back into his nerves and a hot surge of blood filling his fingertips with warmth, and_ oh _, is he—_

 

" _Thor_!" And it is that familiar exasperated voice, tinged with worry he has not heard in eons, that gets Thor to slowly open his eyes. It's—too bright, almost painfully so, and Thor has to squint to let his eyes adjust. Vivid green and an almost gaudy gold fills his vision.

Besides Hela, and Thor highly doubts that voice is her's, he knows only one other who wears such an atrocious color scheme.

"Loki..?" he manages to mumble. His voice comes out low and hoarse, his lips cracked and bruised as though he had been whipped by wind and then by Sif's right fist.

"Yes, you stupid oaf," Loki replies, but the words sound fond and relieved. "That's good, you remember my name-I can't imagine how insufferable you'd be if you lose even that bit of knowledge. Now, are you alright? That fall was nasty, even for your prideful ass."

"M'ass...is _not_ prideful." Thor says, but the haze in his mind is clearing and the memories of Loki's crooked neck are flooding back in and the hot, burning light of a star and _by_ _Odin's tangled beard_ , he must truly be dead. "Is this Valhalla?"

"What?" And Thor's eyes-both still intact, he realizes in astonishment as he blinks-adjust enough for him to look up at Loki's bewildered face. "Thor, if a fall from a balcony was enough to kill you, I think father would need to rethink his choice of heir. Did you hit your head too hard? You can't lose the few precious brain cells you have left."

"Heir?" And Thor's heart stops at the sight that Loki's hair is _short_ . Asgardians age slowly, so slow that he and Loki have maintained relatively the same appearance since when they had just entered into adulthood, and that appearance is not very subject to change. Loki's hair was only ever that short in those few years before he found out about his true birthright. ("Function over fashion," was what Loki had called it, even though Thor knew that was _complete bullshit_ given how their mother longed to see one of her sons in the cut of a scholar instead of a warrior). 

"Yes...heir," Loki says slowly, and by now his eyebrows are slowly furrowing with concern. "And while I do agree that is indeed quite the questionable decision on his part, it _is_ unfortunately true. Are you sure you're alright?"

It strikes Thor then how clear Loki's eyes are; even years after the madness of the mind stone and his fall through Yggdrasil, Loki's eyes had never quite managed to return to their former clarity. All that envy and anger clouding his mind and heart had taken a toll, left strains and cracks in his otherwise composed mask. 

But now, those green eyes were wiped clean of that turmoil, and Thor, even though he hasn't understood his brother's decisions in a long, long time, knows that Loki would never choose to forget the past. 

"Thor?" 

"I'm...alright." Thor says, swallowing past the memory of Loki's still body clutched in his grasp as it cooled to temperatures beneath that of mortal or Asgardian. There's no way fate would be so kind as to give Thor this- this _second chance_. Not after it has been a bitch all his life.

He's almost scared to ask his next question. 

"Are you...are you real?"

Loki's face twists in annoyance-a painfully familiar expression-and he snaps his fingers with a pointed flare. A snake, green and gold because Loki is a subtle little arse, wraps itself around Thor's arm and _bites_. Thor jolts upright. No dream can fake that familiar pain. And surely, not even Thanos would be fool enough to attempt a ploy this stupidly convoluted.

"Is that real enough for you?" And Loki's stupid face is smug, but that expression quickly morphs into surprise as Thor pulls him into the hug he should have given his brother on the ship, when he had said "I'm here," when there was still time before Thanos and death and- 

" _Loki._ " Thor breathes because this is his little brother, alive and carefree and everything he was before things got messy and complicated. This is the Loki that Thor thought he had lost a long time ago because even after his brother returned to his senses, things were never truly the same. Thor feels his eyes sting.

"Thor!" Loki says in horror as tears fall onto his shoulder, and his hands raise to push against Thor's chest. " _Get off_."

Thor feels himself forcefully pulled away from the embrace by a tendril of magic wrapped around his midsection. He falls onto the heels of his palms as Loki straightens and rises from his crouch. There is a brief moment of shock as they stare at each other in stunned silence. Then, to what must be Loki's utter confusion, Thor begins to laugh. 

_Of course._ Before everything, Loki had hated him, had harbored resentment against him. Thor had been no better, had deftly ignored Loki as well, annoyed by his brother's preference for the spoken word and magic instead of the far more interesting pursuits of brawn and battle.

His behavior now would only reveal that he is no longer the same Thor Odinson that had occupied this body, and _that_ is drama Thor wants to avoid. He shudders to think of Odin's magic tearing away his soul, inspecting it to be the fraud it must appear as. No, better to think through this first for once. Plan. Stark would have been proud.

Thor composes himself and forces on the smile he favored in his youth-charming, charismatic, tinged with arrogance. "Forgive me, brother. I seem to have lost myself for a moment."

Loki eyes him with suspicion, but releases the tendril of magic still curled around Thor's arm. The snake disintegrates out of existence. "Whatever you say, Thor. But if that fall has seriously damaged even your thick skull, I would not be surprised."

"What fall?"

"From the balcony."

"Oh."

"Indeed."

 "Whose balcony?"

Loki rolls his eyes, and says dryly, "Leave it to Thor Odinson, the pride of Asgard, to not even remember the name of his current pursuit. No wonder she pushed you off, though I am surprised you actually fell like a sack of bricks to the ground. I was expecting more resistance."

Thor racks his mind trying to remember _when_ this happened-and ah, he does recall a very mad Asgardian woman as well as frying pan magicked to have far more force than it should. "I suspect you had something to do with it? You are very conveniently here."

" _Me_ , God of Mischief, orchestrate something as mischievous as this? Why, Thor, what a low opinion you have of me."

"Loki, I thought the world of you." The words fall out of Thor's mouth unbidden, like tumbling pebbles, and for a moment he's back again, in that elevator on Sakaar, his brother at his side once more, and feeling both victorious and saddened that he's able to let Loki go. 

Thor has the startling realization that maybe, in this lifetime, he won't have to.

 His brother's eyebrows inch upward in disbelief. "Are you sure you're alright?" 

And Thor looks up, at his brother not yet poisoned by Thanos' forces, at a Loki who still thinks himself an Odinson and Aesir. He feels a bubbling hope in his chest. He has been given another chance-no, Loki and Valkyrie and _Asgard_ have been given another chance.

Damn Hela, damn Thanos, _damn his own father_ for all the secrets that have festered in these golden foundations. Thor will lose no more. 

"I'm fine, brother. Perfect."

 

* * *

 

He will save them all.

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who just rewatched Infinity Wars because their willpower is weak!!! Good news: I just finished a rough outline of the entire plot for this fic! In regards to updates, I have exams right now, so they’ll unfortunately be pretty sporadic . I’m aiming to stabilize at weekly updates, but for these next two month or so, updates will be kind of shaky. Hope you choose to stick around regardless! Hope y’all enjoy this chapter :)

One of Thor’s earliest memories is walking into the throne room, his hand clutched in Odin’s, his eyes heavenward, in awe of the impossibly high ceiling and the grand history of Asgard painted across it . Loki was on the other side, grasping the long sleeve of their father’s robe with two hands, but his eyes, already too sharp and smart for his age, were focused only on the throne and the circlet in Thor’s hair.

Thor had always hated that circlet. Such a small diadem of twisting gold, useless on the battlefield and malleable in his grip. A weak thing that could do nothing against the burgeoning power that had begun to ebb and flow, a tidal wave in his blood.

Odd, how Thor no longer remembers when he last wore that circlet, when Loki had stowed away his silver one as well.

“Here, lies Fate’s path for you.” Odin had said, his voice low and serious. His sole eye shone with a  wistful, almost sorrowful quality when it caught the light. “The throne has always been your birthright.”

But he did not looked to either of his sons.

Too scared, Thor thinks now in retrospect, to confront his own lies. Too scared to unearth the graves beneath that golden room’s splendor, to reveal the jagged white teeth set within Asgard’s foundations.

Too scared, of Hela, and the circlet she too must have once worn.

 

* * *

 

“Rise, Thor.”

Thor lifts his gaze to meet the eyes of the Allfather, and gods, it's been ages since he’s felt so young, so meek. Here, is Odin in the prime of his power, and Thor, over the years that he had been absent from Asgard, had forgotten the sheer _weight_ of his father’s might, so pure and strong it was nearly tangible in the air. In his youth, Thor has never been particularly observant to power other than his own, but now, after having awakening the full extent of his own powers, he understands why Asgard’s people bow and kneel so easily to their king. He stands.

Gungnir, clasped casually in Odin’s grip, nearly vibrates with energy, and Thor sucks in a breath between his teeth as he feels a shockwave of unbridled strength swiftly pass through him. A test? He fights to keep his composure from revealing surprise and hurriedly smothers the lightning crackling in his veins. He assumes it works as Odin gives a nearly imperceptible nod to Frigga—the barest of glances, but still there. Making sure that their prince regent has his powers still under control, he presumes.

Thunder thrums an impatient death march between his bones, angry at being held captive and knotted at his sternum.

Mjolnir is a familiar weight at his side, one that Thor has sorely missed, and although it does offer some semblance of control, the hammer is no longer as effective at keeping his powers in check as it once was. Before, wielding Mjolnir had felt like pouring water into a funnel, something to refine and focus his powers, to soothe the static that reverberated through his nerves. But ever since he became king, since he awakened those dormant powers, Thor has felt like a dam within him has broken, as if Odin’s death unleashed not only Hela but another monster as well. Mjolnir does a passing job at keeping it contained, but the body of Thor’s younger self feels ill-equipped to handle and harness his power in its entirety.

Anger and suspicion flare in his gut, and Thor can’t help but think if Odin had stowed away more than just secrets and siblings. Has Odin caged all of his offspring in some way?

But the Allfather’s expression is one of amusement, his single eye twinkling with familiar mirth, and Thor cannot bring himself to think on the subject any more. As much as he is angered, there remains a part of him that rejoices at the sight of his father still alive and powerful.

Odin beckons him forward with the slightest curl of his fingers. “Come, my son. You said you had a request?”

And like nothing has changed, Thor follows the order of Asgard’s King obediently, ready to be received by the Allfather’s order and mercy.

And—and maybe this also means that Thor doesn’t have to save everyone on his own. Maybe this Odin, before his powers were weakened, can help him in a way his own never could. Maybe this Odin wouldn’t abandon him to Fate.

As he ascends the steps, Thor catches a glimpse of the outside, at the kingdom of Asgard with its spiraling towers and vibrant shops and luminous, golden sheen. It warms him from the inside. Asgard may be a people, but that does not stop the nostalgia from rising when he glances at a familiar street or tavern or garden—at _home_.

And isn’t it worth swallowing his pride to preserve the kingdom he loves most?

But for just a moment, the golden image flickers.

_Bodies are tossed carelessly in piles stacked as high as the smoke of funeral pires. Their bare bones grind against stone like white chalk, their blood a red ribbon of gasoline feeding the hungry fires still nipping at Asgard’s foundation. A menacing march, a sway of hips, and Hela prowls through the flooded streets._

_A slash of agony erupts across the side of his face. The sudden realization that half of his vision is gone and everything, the pain and grief and anger, burns with the intensity of a star, but it is not him but_ Asgard _that goes up in flames—_

“Thor?” It’s a question, but Odin sounds it out as a warning, and—oh.

He has reached the top of the stairs, now eye-level with his father. The air is thick with ozone, and there’s a buzz boiling under Thor’s flesh. Odin’s fingers are gripped tightly around Gungnir, the knuckles white as they stretch his skin taut. He buries the thunder threatening to escape from his fingertips.

All of a sudden, the weight of the cape draped over Thor shoulders feels heavy and awkward. The tendrils of long hair that curl at his shoulders, the warrior’s cut he had always strove to maintain, are annoyances. It’s as if he’s wearing a costume.

Hela’s voice rings in his mind, a death knell and reminder.

_“Kneel, before your queen.”_

And that’s all it takes to convince Thor that he will not plead for the Allfather’s mercy and benevolence because _it was all Odin’s fault_. Everything only started going to shit when Odin’s lies finally caught up to him, and though he made those lies with good intentions, he had been too scared to face them. Left his sons to claim the punishment. And look what it has cost them—an eye, a kingdom, a life, each other.

It’s been a long time since Thor has felt he needed his father’s help. No, this mission he must do alone, as Asgard’s past and future king.

“My apologies, father.” Thor replies evenly with a slight bow of his head. He keeps his gaze steadily on his father’s eye. Pale and watery blue—what does it see now? An heir to both Asgard’s throne and inevitable destruction?  “A question has been troubling me as of late, and my mind cannot be eased until it is answered.”

“What sort of question has caused even my most impulsive son to bear caution?”

Should he ask about Asgard’s history? Thanos? The nature of his own powers? (A voice suspiciously close to Hela’s rings in his mind, “ _What are you the god of again?_ ”).  He had come with the intention of finding answers, to perhaps ask Odin _why_ he deceived his children for so long. Maybe he should ask about Asgard’s true heir.

Another testing ripple of power blows through Thor, and he knows that it would be far too risky to ask for knowledge of what he should never know. Already, his father harbors distrust towards his kin. Thor doesn’t even want to entertain the thought of if his mother feels the same.

A mischievous little plan forms in his mind. Just a small, naughty thought, but—

_What if?_

Thor knows he should have planned better, should have plotted a bit more carefully the routes for the future. He would, after all, have the best chances at guaranteeing the future if he keeps to what he expects.

But damn it,  isn’t this the reason why he was sent back? To change things, to save everyone? What a waste if he held himself confined to the decisions of a failed past. All his life, Thor has relied on the powers given to him, but in order to save Asgard, maybe it’s more than just defeating the foes he knows will come. Maybe it’s also in fixing what had set the kingdom—the royal family—astray.

“...the Odinsleep approaches, yes?”

“Indeed,” Odin replies. A wary look passes across his face. “What of it?”

 

So, Thor asks what feels _right_ in the moment because it’s what he has always done all his life.

 

“What if you were to place Loki on the throne?”

 

* * *

 

Something has been... _off_ with Thor, but Loki couldn’t tell exactly what or why.

Sure, his brother was being less of an arse than usual, and yes, Thor had become unusually fond of his hair cut (Loki could have sworn his brother ridiculed him for it just last week, calling him a scholar whose unspeakables shrank with the length of his new hair. Terrible person, his brother).

But beyond that, there is nothing _wrong_ with Thor, per say. Nothing that truly warrants concern. He’s the same arrogant and stubborn man Loki had always known, but he had also become strangely reserved and withdrawn. Loki found his brother sneaking a glance too many at himself, Odin, and their mother during dinner, and there was a peculiar wistfulness when he looked upon the Warriors Three or at his usual favorite haunts. At times, Loki thinks his brother might even be putting up a front.

But that’s ridiculous. Thor has never had much more depth beyond brute strength and pride and bloodlust. To insinuate that Thor, the same prince who would rather muscle his way through every situation than use words, was _acting_ of all things would be an almost blasphemous statement.

It’s unfortunate then that Loki actually _likes_ this new side of his brother. As the week passed, he found Thor to be more approachable, slower to anger. Maybe that fall really had damaged something. Hel, if Loki knew all it took to change his idiotic brother was _one_ spelled frying pan, he would have smacked Thor himself years ago.

A small voice in his mind wonders if this would be his opportunity to show their father how terribly unprepared Thor is for the throne.

Of course, Loki knows this is pure fodder. Golden Thor could _never_ do the Allfather wrong, even when he’s acting stranger than his norm. How could Loki ever compare? Scrawnier than Thor, weaker than Thor, always _lesser_ than Thor. It’s almost funny how large the disparity is between Odin’s two sons.

“My sun and moon, my day and night,” Frigga used to croon to them in her arms, back when her sons were inseparable and small enough to cradle. Of course, she didn’t need to say who was who. Oh no, Loki knew, even in their youth, what his role was in this family—to be Thor’s balance but never his equal.

But he found where he could excel and Thor could not: in words and knowledge and magic. It is in the library, among scholars and sorcerers, that Loki is appreciated and validated. It is here, that the pursuit and gain of wisdom is endless and ever satisfying. It is here, that he can be guaranteed relief from his brother’s suffocating presence.

So when Thor’s stupid, hulking figure squeezes its way through the library entrance, Loki fumbles and nearly drops his book in shock.

What, _in_ _Odin’s twisted briefs_ , is _Thor_ doing in his library _?_

Thor spots Loki from across the library and offers a little wave. He looks ridiculously out of place as he attempts to move through the narrow gap between the lines of books. Even the slightest of turns has Thor’s cape whipping into shelves, sending the precious, ancient texts of Asgard’s holy history spiraling onto the ground.

At the very least, Thor has the decency to look sheepish.

 _Idiot_.

“ _What are you doing here_ ?” Loki hisses as he stalks up to his brother. “Did you get lost on the way to the battlegrounds? This—this is the _library_ . A place with _books_.”

“Yes, Loki, I am aware that books are located in libraries.” But it’s said dryly, not in Thor’s usual frank manner, and Odin help him—it’s almost as if Thor can understand _sarcasm_ now.

Loki sputters and for the first time in his life, he is at a loss for words. This is all wrong, so very wrong. He flings out a hand and brushes Thor’s forehead with his fingertips, searching for dark energy, or the presence of invading magic, or a _damn fever_ if it’d allow this situation to make some sort of sense. To his horror and relief, he finds nothing, just the familiar buzz of electricity that’s particular to Thor’s powers. Oddly enough, the stream of power Loki usually associates with Thor seems to eddy beneath his touch, drawn to the force of his own magic.

Thor stares at him for a moment, waiting. A strange expression flickers across his face, and it takes Loki a moment to register that why it looks so ill-suited on Thor—he’s _nervous._ Thor doesn’t do nervous, not when arrogance is a far better match for his dumb face, and that anxious expression makes Loki bristle.

“Brother?” Thor asks tentatively and flinches as Loki sends a curious probe into the stream of electricity bubbling up to meet his magic—and isn’t that _interesting_ because when has Thor ever been sensitive to sorcery? This is only getting stranger and stranger. “Would you, ah, mind lowering your hand?”

By now, some of the scholars in the room have paused, eyeing them with poorly disguised interest. Waiting, Loki presumes with distaste, for the delicious gossip that would arise if either brother initiates conflict. He already knows who the stories will favor. Thor, innocent and curious, _assaulted_ by his brother upon entering. Loki lowers his hand reluctantly.

“Come with me,” he mutters under his breath, wrapping his slim figures around his brother’s ridiculously muscular arm, but Thor doesn’t budge. Loki tugs again insistently, aided by a push of magic, but still his brother does not move.

“Actually,” Thor says lightly, but his eyes blaze with the same pale blue intensity as Odin, and it makes Loki freeze. He has never seen his brother look so similar to the Allfather, to a king. “I’m here to do some research. I was hoping you’d be of some help.”

And it’s all so strange—the burgeoning magic, the nervousness, the frightening similarity to Odin— _but_. It’s been eons since Thor had last asked him for help, since Loki was something or someone that Thor felt he could trust or rely on. He’s almost touched. Maybe that’s why he agrees.

“Alright then, ” he says, relinquishing the grip he held around his brother’s wrist. “What are you looking for?”

“Oh, the usual things, “ Thor says casually. “Battle tactics, the entrance of Hel and Niflheim, maybe even some linguistics thrown here or there. My Groot _is_ getting rather rusty.

This time, Loki does drop the book in his grasp.

“You’re looking for _what_?”

“I know, I know. Groot isn’t exactly the most useful of languages to master, but it is a passio—“

“No,” Loki says, raising a hand to silence his brother, a rather effective method when magic is added to enforce the gesture. He takes a solid moment to appreciate Thor’s silence. “I meant why’re you looking for books about _Niflheim_? I would assume you have your heroic little heart set on Valhalla.”

“Out of sheer curiosity?”

“You can’t expect me to be so daft, Thor.”

“Fine,” Thor relents, but a small smile has graced his features for some insufferable reason. “I’m planning to pay a little diplomatic visit to one of our Nine realms. I hear Niflheim gets a bit chilly at this time of year. You have knowledge of all the realms from your travels, yes?”

A pause.

“ A visit,” He echoes flatly. “A visit—have you gone _insane_ ? No, wait. Has _father_ gone insane? Sending you there is a death warrant!”

“Ah, well, Father and I are not exactly on good terms at the moment. A bit of a verbal disagreement occurred the last time I entered the throne room.”

“‘A verbal disagreement.’”

“Maybe just a tiny bit more than that.”

Had Loki been the one to be struck by a frying pan? Thor and Odin at odds against each other, mere months before the Odinsleep and Thor’s coronation are planned to occur—Loki should be overjoyed. Such an opportunity is as rare as the alignment of stars.

And yet, for some reason, he can’t bring himself to capitalize on this opportunity.

“No,” he says finally after a brief silence. It’s not the most eloquent answer, but in his defense, he’s a bit at a loss for words yet again.

“No?”

“No, I am not helping you research what will be your definite _death_. Don’t you know what it means to visit Hel in Niflheim? No one—not even a god—can leave. The rare surviving texts from the previous Ragnarok even allude to a ruler imprisoned there.”

“Even better. I’ll have someone to talk to.”

“Just because Father, for once in your life, has not given you what you wanted, does not mean you should just go traipsing to your demise, Thor!”

Thor casts a quick glance around them at those last words, and damn it, Loki forgot that they were still in the midst of nosy scholars and members from Odin’s court. He hastily summons a silencing spell around them.

“Loki,” Thor says softly once the rest of the world is muted. He clasps his hand on the crook where Loki’s neck and shoulders meet. It’s a familiar gesture— _their_ gesture—but it’s also been a while since they last were on good enough terms to do so. “I have no intentions of meeting my demise anytime soon. There’s—there’s someone I have to meet.”

Someone? And _oh_ . Everything clicks, with startling new clarity. No wonder Thor is desperate enough to ask _Loki_ for help. No wonder the Allfather is upset with his golden heir. He’s a fool to have thought that Thor has changed. Loki knows what this is.

“So you’re meeting with another lover?” He scoffs. “I’m amazed Thor. That’s a new low, even for you, to rut with a dead soul.”

“ _Lover_?” Thor chokes out, but Loki notes that he stops himself from disagreeing. Definitely a lover. No wonder Odin is unhappy with his perfect son—Loki can’t even imagine the kind of political mess an arrangement like this would bring.

Loki heaves a heavy sigh. “If you need to do ‘research,’ don’t even try, Thor. Even I am not so mischievous enough to commit treason of this extent. How did you even meet her?”

Thor swallows and looks slightly sick as he fumbles for an answer. “I...Heimdall.”

“I presume our beloved gatekeeper disapproves of such a relationship?”

“Yes. That’s exactly it. So I came seeking your help! I know that even as others claim it is a one-way journey, you have the means and mgic to travel through the realms without Heimdall’s notice.”

Admittedly, Loki does feel rather flattered by these words. “A bit risky, isn’t it? To assume that I would have such talents when you are alluding to what is pure _treason_ against our father.”

“I wasn’t assuming,” Thor says, quirking an eyebrow. “So will you help me then?

Blast Loki’s love for trouble; the blood in his veins already sings in anticipation of such mischief. He sighs. If anything, at least he can always use this later as an opportunity to slight Thor in the eyes of Odin.

“Alright then, assuming I do have such access to the World Tree, when are you planning for this little plot to take place? We can hardly risk our king’s anger so close to your coronation.”

And then, perhaps strangest of all,  a bright, mischievous grin spreads across Thor’s face.

 

“Brother, didn’t you hear? _You’ll_ be king during the Odinsleep.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! These past 2 weeks have been extremely busy, and I haven’t been able to find the time to get a good flow of writing in. I’ll be honest, I’m not super satisfied with the overall chapter, but there’s definitely a section I absolutely adored writing. And I am so excited to write the next chapter!! Thank you to all that left a comment! Each one really brightened my day and motivated me to get just a bit more of this fic written. Feel free to leave some more ;) Side note, also just rewatched Thor 1—can someone please save Hemsworth’s eyebrows.

****The hallway is a structure of all glass; wires of twisting bronze gild the large windows that frame the length of the corridor. Light streams in from the outside, in slants of honeyed gold made starker and more saturated by the dark, rain-swollen clouds above them. Below, the palace garden is a large square of vivid green.  Vines twist around an old statue of Odin, circling around his neck and wrists in splurts of crimson roses—bright like fresh blood against the grey pallor of the stone.

Thor wishes he has time to admire it all, to appreciate that it’s still _here_. That all of Asgard is here and not some mirage or figment or cruel cosmic deception. He wants to sneak open the window pane, recall the memories of his youth, tilt his head to the sun as a flower would thirst for its warmth after a flood. 

Unfortunately, as evidenced by his _entire life_ , Thor does not often get what he wishes. Especially not when he’s doing his best to escape one particularly murderous god.

Loki is hot on his heels; the books clutched in Thor’s arms slip from his grasp as he rounds past every corner. Many a palace wall is now scorched with the force of Loki’s magic, a concoction of fire, acid, and undiluted hatred.

“ _THOR_!” His brother’s irritation is evident, practically rattles the windows of the glass hallway as he marches forward. His pale hands are fisted at his sides, and noxious green wisps swirl around them. The air crackles in sharp, ominous warning as the pressure of magic expands in front of his brother like an approaching storm.

“Now, Loki,” Thor says, one hand thrust forward placantly, his eyes desperately searching for a way out. Alas, there is only the remainder of the long corridor and the windows as escape, and Thor doubts that he will be quick enough to flee his brother’s wrath. “Let us be civil.”

“ _Civil_ ?” Loki hisses. He clenches his fists tighter, and green sparks ricochet from his hands, splintering the delicate glass upon landing—and _why_ haven’t any guards come to Thor’s rescue? Damn the security of the palace. “You say something as—as blasphemous as _that_ and have the gall to tell me to be _civil_?”

“Blasphemous? It is truth, brother.”

Loki’s nostrils flare, his steps pointed and loud against the glass floor, leaving smudges of ash and soot in their wake.  “Truth? You must forgive me, lies come with mischief after all. It becomes hard to differentiate your words from _complete bullshit_.”

“I am serious.”

“No,” He shakes his head, his jaw set. “It is impossible. This is a cruel joke you are playing, Thor. Taunting me with what I could never be.”

“We were both raised to be kings.”

“There is only one throne, and only one of us trained to sit upon it.”

Thor smiles. “Then it’s a good thing I told father I no longer deserve to be king.”

A pause.

“You did _what_?” There’s a look of uncomprehending horror slashed across his brother’s face. Thor pushes down the urge to snort.

_Your ambition blinds you, brother—is it really so hard to believe? If only you knew even the Thor Odinson of old would have given up the throne had he known the cost._

“I told father I was not ready for the throne. Someone else should be king until then, and I, being the _smart_ one of the family, nominated you.”

Loki only stares. The magic fizzles out of his hands, and the air lessens as the pressure of his sorcery dissipates. His mouth goes slack in disbelief. Thor gives himself a mental pat on the back for rendering Silvertongue himself speechless.

“Odin, help me. You aren’t kidding.”

“I never have been one to ‘kid,’ Brother. That’s always been more your domain.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You wound me with your eloquence.”

His brother frowns. “You’re also being awfully mature about all this. How unlike you to think of more than just the glory of kingdom or battle.” Loki stops for a moment, considering. “She must be one hell of a dead soul.”

Thor winces, suppresses a groan of irritation. “Ah...yes. The best of them.”

_Gods above, Loki. Stop it with the dead soul romance._

Loki shakes his head, his brows furrowing. “And father is just—allowing this to happen? I don’t quite believe that.”

“Well, technically, no. He threw an almighty tantrum in the throne room—very dramatic, our father—but mother intervened. Spoke on your behalf.”

It had surprised Thor, when in the midst of Odin’s whipping rage and discontent, his mother had stepped in, soothed the Allfather with just a light brush of her fingers across his knuckles. The banners that flapped in the wild wind of Gungnir's power flopped back into place, the dark anger and frustration brewing in his father’s eyes mellowed as he gazed at his beloved wife.

“Odin,” his mother had started, voice lilting and pleasant, and Thor was reminded of why the All-mother had always been regarded as Asgard’s true peace maker. Of course—the warrior king his father was would never have known bloodless rule otherwise. “Hear his reasons. Loki would make a fine king still. His heart is not wicked.”

Odin stiffened, and Thor had to be careful to not show a reaction. Her words had been placating and kind, but her tone was sharp and bolstered with magic, betraying a fury ancient and deep set. She had smiled then, cupped her beloved’s face with soft, knowing hands. But even Thor could see the edge at the corner of her smile, see who taught his brother the layered art of words.

After all, Frigga’s message was one simple and pointed. And even Allfather would hesitate to insinuate otherwise.

_Loki is not be Hela._

Thor’s heart swelled from his mother’s approving, considering glance as she looked up towards him. The soft and familiar twinkle in her eyes, the gentle ruffle of silk and gold beneath her steps, the waft of jasmine and smoke laced with her particular brand of magic. Oh, how Thor has missed his mother. Her funeral, that haunting night of fires and lanterns and the ash of stars, seemed so far away. The old grief in Thor’s chest had lightened at the sight of her merciless diplomacy.

Odin consented.

Now, Loki’s face flushes with joy (and embarrassment; his younger brother had never one to let others speak for him) as Thor recounts their mother’s words and praise. Though there is no way his brother knows the true depth of Frigga’s words, it is still makes Thor’s heart squeeze to see the pleased smile emerge from beneath the god’s usual facade of cold disinterest. How long has it been since he last saw Loki without all the masks?

It is a start, and it is enough to convince Thor that he has made the right decision.

 

* * *

 

 

It has been two weeks since he landed back in time and one week since Odin declared that Loki will take up the throne during the Odinsleep. Things aren’t drastically different yet, after all Loki’s coronation is not for another couple of months, but Thor has already started to take notice of what small things _have_ changed.

The scholars and diplomats within the palace now flock to Loki to curry favor. There are more too-long touches and lingering stares from greedy maidens and men alike as Asgard’s black haired prince traverses the streets. Even Odin had shown subtle attempts at dinner time to converse more with his youngest son—awkward and stilted attempts but attempts nonetheless.

Honestly. Thor is beginning to feel a bit left out.

But he’s glad for the shift in attention. With the whole of the palace and even Heimdall focused on Loki, carefully evaluating his every potential move, it gives Thor far more freedom to research and sketch out the barebones of a plan.

Norns, _a plan_. He’s beginning to sound like the Captain. Thor had never been the war general or strategist, had always operated better with lightning sparking instinct to action in his veins, the relentless flood of adrenaline and battle. Right now, his plan is mostly based around the premise of: Don’t Screw Up—which sounds scarily close to Stark’s brand of preparation.

He wonders how his Midgardian friends are. Have they even been conceived yet? Would he be able to call upon them when he undoubtedly must face Thanos? He misses them.

(He wonders how they fared in the timeline where he died.)

In any case, Thor has grown restless from all this time left alone to his thoughts. The buzz of electricity beneath his skin clusters into knots of frenzied energy, pools in stagnant puddles at his ankles and elbows. It’s exhausting to suppress power that the Thor Odinson of this time should not have; he worries his powers will grow weak and atrophy from disuse. However, Asgard right now is in a state of peace and tranquility, and Thor would be hard pressed to find himself a decent opponent without drawing the eye of foreign ambassadors or politicians.

This forces Thor to be a bit, ah, _creative._

“Heimdall.”

“No, Odinson.”

“Heimdall, my _best friend._ ”

“No.'

  
“You are the most valiant and disciplined of sentries in all the Nine Realms. I know I speak on behalf of my father when I say—”

“My prince,” Heimdall says, one eyebrow raised. The light of Yggdrasil and the cosmos makes his armor blaze glorious gold against his dark skin. “I may be all-seeing but even I cannot see why you would request to spar with me.”

“Well, I have always wished to test my mettle against our Guardian.”

“You should be aware that either of our victories would prove disastrous to the image of Asgard.” 

“No one will ever know the victor. There doesn’t even _need_ to be a victor.” The bundle of energy within him builds, makes him claustrophobic in his own skin. Thor feels like his lungs are too high in his throat, power making way for itself within his ribcage. “Please.”

“Thor,” Heimdall says softly, looking out at the span of stars and space visible from within the Observatory. “I see all the souls in the Nine Realms. The rise and fall of kingdoms, the life and death of worlds, the tremors of the World Tree. Millions are under Asgard’s protection, and thus, mine. Would you ask me to be so careless with these souls?”

Heimdall’s eyes are serious, bright with the gift of his sight. Any retorts die on Thor’s tongue.

Once, in another time, he saw through those eyes, witnessed the calamity of Hela. _Felt_ the panic and loss of his people desperately fighting for survival. Felt his own uselessness. He had thought that the worst of realities. Surely, nothing would ever surpass that tragedy.

Then, then— 

_“Allfather, let the Dark Magic flow through me one last time…”_

_The light of the Bifrost._

_A thrust sword and dying breath._

_Rage, anguish, sorrow._

_“You’re going to die for that!”_

_Thanos._

“My prince?”

Thor snaps back into reality where Heimdall now looks at him with concern. The light of the Nine Realms still shines from within him, glows around them in the multi-colored glory of the Bifrost.

Heimdall regards him carefully. “You have changed, Odinson.” He says at last, cooly and assessing. “Though I do not know what exactly has changed, I sense the magic of Yggdrasil within you. Whatever it is that you seek, I will do my best to assist.”

“I told you, old friend. I seek battle. Clarity.”

The guardian stares intently, and must see something in Thor’s face. He nods slowly.

“Very well, my prince.”

But Heimdall does not raise Hofund in preparation for battle. Instead, he slides the sword into its pedestal, and the Observatory churns around them. Spins and spins and spins. Until all Thor can see is the bright energy of Yggdrasil’s branches, the dappling flickers of starlight as the world moves around them, and two gold eyes.

The stars fade until only the blackest of velvet nights exists, and Thor sleeps.

 

* * *

 

_They’re young, in the garden. His hands are sticky with mud; Loki’s are slick with morning dew. Leaves sway in the breeze, but the stalks and stems are all empty. Clusters of flowers and bulbs litter the ground around them, but they do not stir even as Thor and his brother trample over them._

_Ghosts, they must be ghosts. It’s only them in the garden—them and the approaching thunder clouds, dark and full with rain._

_“Thor!” His brother yells from across the garden. He’s climbing the stone statue of their father. “Look at me!”_

_Loki climbs and climbs and climbs, never quite managing to reach past their father’s crown. Small, bare feet scramble for purchase, slipping against the stone. His skin has started to bleed from the thorns scraping against his flesh; his fingertips are ruined and raw by their desperate grip. Blood drips onto the roses, and the petals drink it in thirstily. The statue begins to crack, and Loki screams as his blood transforms from the crimson of Aesir to the shimmering gold of a king before finally morphing into blue the color of Jotun ice, the color of the tesseract._

_Thor does not move to save him. He is frozen in place. A large crack suddenly slants across Odin’s stone face, and the sound of the break echoes in the garden as if in a cave. It’s a clean, straight line stretching from his chiseled eye to jaw._

_Someone is watching from above, in the glass hallway. Thor knows it, though he cannot see who it is when he glances up. He can only make out the glint of eyes like one would spot gunmetal in the dark._

_They are familiar._

_“Help me, Thor!” Loki’s voice cries._

_But he can’t turn away. He’s drawn to the figure above them, and his eyes refuse to move from their vigil, staring above at the inky smudge in the glass corridor. There’s nothing he can do but listen to his brother’s mounting cries of pain and terror. He’s trapped and useless and caged just like when—_

_“_ Thor _.”_

_The spell breaks. The presence of the figure dissipates, and Thor, finally relieved of the hold over his body, turns._

_However, it is not Loki, but_ Valkyrie _now trapped in the vines, bleeding over the leaves and thorns, staring at him with large, brown eyes framed by the markings of her sisters. Her blood is the pure silver of blessed warriors, a thick spill of immortality that slides down the long, green stems. She’s dressed in full armor, but her sword is not in her hand._

 _“_ LET ME HAVE THIS.”

_Her mouth does not move, but her voice is clearer than anything else in the dream. It is then Thor realizes where her sword is—it sticks out of the large crack in Odin’s statue, submerged to the hilt in something slick and glossy like ichor. The viscous liquid drips from her rapier in hissing black puddles._

_“_ Let me have this. _”_

_The vines are now tangled in her hair, piercing through her skin. Thorns poke out from within her, and brilliant crimson red flowers blossom at her chest and neck and wrists. They swell and drip from where they emerge._

_She closes her eyes._

_“Let me have this.”_

Thor wakes.

He’s back in his quarters, his windows thrown open to let in the sun and summer wind. Below, the noises of Asgardian life floats up like music. The breeze carries with it the scent of roses.

How odd, when Frigga has only ever planted jasmines on his windowsill.

 

* * *

 

“We’re going to Sakaar. Now.” 

Loki looks up from his book as Thor hoists a travel bag onto the library table. It’s obviously too full; the coarse fabric bulges with outlines of awkward angles and odd shapes. It’s a wonder that the straps haven’t burst from strain.

Something bright gold and curved tumbles out of it and rolls across the wooden floor, obnoxiously loud. It stops at his feet with a clatter. Loki looks down.

His helm.

Thor’s arms are crossed, and his lips are pursed with dissatisfaction—the image of a petulant child. He stares outside the library windows at the dark clouds rolling in, tapping his foot impatiently.

The scholars are staring again. Insolent, nosy lot that they are. 

Loki closes his eyes. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Sighs.

“Thor, you have _got_ to be joking.”

“Nope.” His brother says, popping the ‘p’.

“First you say I’ll be king during the Odinsleep. Fine. I’m okay with that. Happy even, to be burdened with such glorious purpose. But now, you’re saying we’re taking a trip to—where again? _Sakaar_?”

Thor shifts his attention back to Loki, and the big oaf has the _gall_ to nod seriously. “Yes.”

“May I ask why the sudden interest in the biggest shit-hole of the Nine Realms? And why _I_ have to come with you?”

“I have business there, and you’re the best navigator for worlds between the seams of the cosmos.” Thor says simply. He offers a grin. “And I know you can’t resist an opportunity to cause mischief.”

“True, but…” Loki hesitates.

It’s a terrible decision to go. Extremely irresponsible. The exact reason why Loki believed Thor would be an incompetent king for the throne. No, he can do better. _Be_ better. Prove to father that _he_ is the best—not the golden child that Odin always, always favored. Loki should say no, report Thor’s planned disobedience.

But Norns, Thor is looking at him expectantly, with the unabashed excitement and frenzied energy of adventure. And hasn’t his brother proved himself enough by giving up the throne? Haven’t they lost enough time to growing apart?

Thor stoops down to pick up his helm. It’s almost small in his brother’s large hands, but there’s a soft fondness in his eyes that Loki can’t tear himself away from. This is all that he’s ever wanted. To be accepted. Noticed.

(Has Loki ever truly wanted the throne for himself or just wanted to do one above his brother?)

No, no, no. He’s pathetic. Easily won over. No wonder Odin never wanted him to take the throne if his will was so weak. But does what Odin think even matter that much anymore? Does he not have what he asked for? Acknowledgment, though such a small, small thing, is enough.

The thoughts run themselves rampant in Loki’s mind, in cycles of frustrating self-hatred and loathing for everyone else. What is he to do?

“So? Will you come with me?” In the cold of Loki’s vexation, a warmth settles on his shoulder. He startles, brought back into the moment by Thor’s reassuring clasp. There’s an emotion he can’t identify that’s all over his brother’s stupid face, and it irks Loki that he can’t read the oaf as clearly as he should.

_How have you changed so much, brother? This is the you I know, but it has been buried under foolish arrogance for so long. What happened?_

Thor blinks at him with those insufferably wide blue eyes. Pouts. He _pouts_.

Fine. Damn it all.

Worst comes to worst—it was Thor’s idea.

“When do we leave?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the next three weeks, I can’t guarantee any updates because my WiFi will be kinda unreliable! In regards to this chapter—phew this is a bit longer than my usual. I churned it out in two days in a determined spiel of inspiration aha. I’m really happy with how it came out though! The story should really pick up from here, and I may have to change my plans for weekly updates considering that the chapters are going to get longer as well. We’ll see. Anyways, hope you enjoy! Leave a comment on your way out ;)

“Mother, look! A Valkyrie!”

Brunnhilde had startled at the young voice, nearly dropping the sword in her grasp mid-swing. She turned to the sound, a sharp reprimand on her tongue for the child that disrupted her training.

Blue eyes, the color of shallow Asgardian waters, of melting Jotun ice, of crackling lighting at dawn, stared back. A crown glinted from within his tousled hair; it was the impossible gold of the Royal palace, gleaming as though the rays of a setting sun had been captured in its forging.

The fledgling god. Prince of Asgard. Odin’s second attempt at an heir.

_Thor, was it?_

“Mother! She’s looking at me!” He said, pulling at Queen Frigga’s robes. The boy couldn’t have been more than five, almost nothing to Brunnhilde’s long, long life. She remembered the celebration upon his birth, a light in the terrible aftermath of Hela’s war. She remembered the people rejoicing—finally, an heir of Odin’s blood but borne from a kind woman’s womb. She remembered Odin sweeping everything under a rug, and the people all the more glad for it. The murals painted over, the graves of a thousand soldiers buried in a cavern beneath the palace, never to be found. Her sisters, their sacrifice, forgotten.

_Thor. Asgard’s rebirth. It’s clean slate._

It was painful to look at him.

“My queen. My prince,” Brunnhilde said, kneeling. Fingers trembling on the hilt of her sword, she couldn’t bring herself to look into those blue eyes, so close were they to the shocking intensity of Hela’s grey ones. “What brings you here?”

“My mother, she tells me of the Valkyrie, an elite fighting squad for Asgard! I’ve always wished to join.” The boy said excitedly before Queen Frigga could stop him. He glanced at her branded arm curiously then around them at the empty stadium. “Where are the rest of you?”

“Thor!” His mother hushed him, scolding. Odin’s new queen was indeed kind. Her tone seemed sincerely apologetic. “I’m terribly sorry, Valkyrie. No manners or tact, this one.”

Valkyrie. Yes, that was all she will ever be to the Royal family. Do they not even recall the name of their last warrior?

“Don’t be, your Highness,” she said, straining a smile on her face as she stared at their shadows casted before her. Once, she had kneeled before the Goddess of Death, had fought beside the relentless queen-to-be. At least then, amidst the bloodshed and death and fire, she belonged. She had _purpose_.

Who was the last Valkyrie servant to now? Certainly not Odin, the King that cowardly hid behind his soldiers, _her_ sisters. Nor Frigga, his newly appointed queen, a young thing that could never truly understand the spilled blood trailing behind her husband’s feet, the red in his ledger.

And certainly, certainly not Thor. How could she ever serve him, when he was a reminder of all she had lost? Would he even need a Valkyrie in this new era of peace?

_Who am I here?_ She thought angrily. _What use am I anymore?_

The boy laid a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up in shock at the sudden buzz that rose in her blood from his touch. Even at such a young age, the royalty of Asgard calls to her.

Of course, heeding the command of the throne was what the Valkyrie were bred for. Forged in the iron grip of a fearless general, bonded by loyalty to the king. Her life was subject to the beckon and call of Asgard. And what did it lead to? The death of her family, of her first and last love. And perhaps soon, if Odin willed it, her own demise.

The prince’s fingers, soft and uncalloused with the plush treatment of youth and wealth, carelessly wiped at the tears that strewn down her face. Since when had she ever wept so freely? How low she has fallen.

“Do not be sad, Valkyrie.” He said, his face open and understanding and everything Odin should have been but was not. “Sometimes, I cannot find my brother too. But he always, _always_ turns up again. You just have to wait!”

Brunnhilde’s heart squeezed in her chest.

Damn his kindness. She could be angry at the Allfather for butchering her sisters’ memory, for hiding history with paint and gold and unmarked graves, but she cannot say anything to Asgard’s future, its prince meant for a reign of peace and glory. A protector, not a conqueror.

What need had he, or Asgard, for a Valkyrie anymore? She had no place here, in this new, shining kingdom, nor did she have anything keeping her there.

“Thank you, my prince,” she said finally, bowing her head. “I will remember your wise words.”

He giggled and laughed in the way only children can, clear and bright and without care. What could she do but smile back? Distantly, thunder rumbled. It was not much longer before his mother ushered him into the palace to resume his duties.

That night, Brunnhilde grabbed her sword, donned the blessed armor, and left Asgard. Heimdall had not the heart to stop her.

She shedded her name. Let it roll off her tongue one last time. _Brunnhilde_. “Ready for battle,” was its meaning, graced to her so many centuries ago. A name that no longer was needed now that the battle had been won (lost).

And leaving behind her old moniker and taking upon that of her sisters in memorial—it was the least she could do. After all, Valkyrie was all that was left to honor them. The last of them in this vast, lonely universe.

 

* * *

  _“Ah, look what we have here. What did you say you came here in? Scrapper 142? Well, 142._

_Welcome to Sakaar.”_

* * *

 

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Thor asks skeptically as Loki conjures a gaping hole in the floor of his room. It shimmers and hisses, a bit too closely reminiscent of a snake. With his foot, Thor nudges in one of Loki’s pens, and it disappears into the darkness with a ghostly _whoosh_. Not good news. “I’m not saying I do not trust you, but that is exactly what I am saying.”

His brother rolls his eyes. “ _You_ wanted to go to Sakaar, a place which might I remind you, is meant for the _lost_ _and_ _unloved_. Do you think there would be a normal way in?”

“No, but—”

“By all means, reject my generous short-cut to the shit hole of the galaxy. In fact, I’d be more than happy to stay here, in our nice and clean kingdom, where there isn’t trash everywhere.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option.”

“Alright, then. Hence,” Loki gestures to the hole. “The portal.”

“You go in first.”

His brother looks up in mock surprise. “ _The_ mighty Thor, praised for his valour in battle, trembles before a simple conjuring?”

“Since when has anything you’ve ever conjured considered _simple_?”

Loki considers that for a moment. “Fair point.”

“Glad we agree. After you, brother.”

“No. You’re still older.”

“Well now you’re just being childish—”

And Loki pushes him into the hole.

Damn his siblings. Evil incarnate, the both of them.

Fortunately, it’s really only a second of panic. His stomach drops for a moment, there’s a blink of pure darkness, and _whoosh_ —he lands squarely in a pile of trash.

_Well, at least this is familiar._ Thor thinks as pulls his leg out of something sticky and flicks away grime. _Good to know Sakaar never changes._

He has just about finished wiping himself clean—or at least, as clean as one can get on Sakaar—when his travel pack lands on top of his head.

“ _Ow_ —Loki!” He calls into the dark hole still hovering above him.

“Oh good. You’re alive,” his brother responds cheerfully. “For a moment there, I thought I actually _did_ mess up.”

A second later, Loki materializes out of the hole. He must have used some sort of wicked combination of stealth and sorcery to land because there’s not a slick of filth on his robes.

“Oh dear,” Loki says, crinkling his nose. “Is it just you or does the entire planet smell this putrid?”

“The whole planet.” Thor claps his brother heartily on the back, making sure to smother of his brother’s garments with a dirtied hand. “And now you too!”

“I hate you.”

“You could never.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Thor doesn’t answer, lets the conversation drop as Loki carefully maneuvers his way to ground free of trash. For a moment, his brother slides on a stray piece of metal, and Thor reaches out a hand to steady him.

The memory hits Thor like a plunge into ice water.

_Wheezing breaths—his little brother’s face turning blue—the clean snap of a broken windpipe in large, powerful hands—_

“So, where to?

Thor blinks and shakes away the image of death shadowing over Loki’s face. Pushes away the pain and loss. It’s what he’s done in the past and it has worked thus far and _everything is perfectly fine._

“Thor?”

Why does he still mourn, when his brother is right here, alive and well? He swallows down the burst of power that flooded in his veins alongside panic.

_Later, I’ll deal with it later._

“Now, we request an audience with the Grandmaster.”

 

* * *

 

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No.”

“Do you know who we are, you blasted wench? Princes of Asgard, protectors of the Nine Realms, and you _dare_ deny us—“

“It’s fine, Loki.” Thor says, putting a hand on his brother’s arm. This was going very bad, very fast. He could see his brother’s fingers twitch towards the knives at his disposal. “She is not going to let us in.”

“It is decidedly _not_ fine!” Loki hisses. “The sheer impudence of it all. I demand you give us an audience with this so-called ‘Grandmaster.’ _I command it_.”

“I quake in fear and subservience.” is the monotone reply. Topaz looks at the two Asgardian princes with as much interest as watching paint dry.

Loki’s eye twitches.

And now is the time to leave before his brother gets any more stabby stabby.

“Thank you for your time,” Thor says with a smile, one hand gripped around the back of his brother’s robe. “If you’ll excuse us.”

_Me, getting us out of trouble? Oh how the tables have turned._

“We could’ve gotten in,” Loki says sulkily as they emerge back outside. Norns, Thor forgot how much his brother complains when things don’t go his way. “It just had to be made clear who exactly is in charge here.”

“We’ll find our way in somehow.”

“Remind me again, brother, what exactly we’re trying to accomplish here?”

“I told you,” Thor says, inspecting the palace walls. Would they be that hard to climb? Last time, out of sheer chance and perhaps divine intervention, Valkyrie had found him. But now, with the vast piles of junk that surrounded the palace, it’d take ages and more than just blind luck to come across Scrapper 142. “I have business here.”

“Ah, yes. Your ever elusive romance that takes you from the misery of _Nifelheim_ to _Sakaar_ —may I ask who your matchmaker is?”

“One word about your love life, Loki. Horses.”

His brother bristles. “That was _one time_ , Thor.”

“You had _children_.”

“Yes, whom I am very proud of.”

“My point is made.”

They lapse into a silence, squinting at the blazing Sakaar sun.

How could he get Valkyrie to see him? The Grandmaster had been his best bet, after all that man had seemed rather enamored with both him and Loki the last time around.

Norns, not only that, it was hard enough to convince Val to return to Asgard the last time—and that was with the _entire realm_ on the line—what could he even say now?

_Yes hello there, estranged warrioress friend of mine. Remember Hela, that woman who destroyed your whole life? Yes, well, she rather ruined my life as well—but not yet, technically._

He was screwed. So, so screwed. But he can’t just leave Val here.

_‘Let me have this.’_

No, Thor cannot in good conscious meet Hela without giving Valkyrie her choice.

But how the hell was he supposed to do that?

Loki nudges him. “Thor.”

“Hm?”

“You want the Grandmaster’s attention, correct?”

“You can say that.”

His brother points at one of the gaudy banners unfurling down the side of a building.

**MISERABLE? EAGER TO ESCAPE THIS PLANET?**

**BE A CONTENDER!**

**BESTING THE GRANDMASTER’S CHAMPION GRANTS YOU FREEDOM!**

“Then I hope your reputation on the battlefield is an accurate one.”

A grin spreads across Thor’s face. Power rises and flexes beneath his skin in anticipation, blood practically singing with glee in his veins. Loki, you genius. Why didn’t he think of this himself? There is no better way to guarantee an audience with the Grandmaster than to best his Champion, no better way to relieve Thor of his flaring power.

“It’s not accurate,” Thor says, and his eyes flash the blue of dying stars. “I’m even stronger.”

 

* * *

 

Terrible. It was a terrible idea to come with Thor.

Loki hates himself for this—for blindly following his brother to the edge of nowhere. Again, he renders himself a weakling. He should have let Thor come alone, let Thor find some way to this hell on his own, let Thor experience loneliness, _helplessness_ for once. And yet, he still came. What a pathetic, witless fool he is.

_How predictable._ Loki thinks bitterly. _The family disappointment can’t even avoid disappointing himself._

He’s lingering near the gate of the stadium, waiting for Thor to emerge from the Contender’s changing room. There’s excitement and bloodlust in the air as the noise of battle rises from beyond the metal gate. Crashes and attacks send tremors through the arena, causing dust and debris to fall from the open cracks of the room. An opening ceremony to the main show.

_I don’t even know what Thor_ _is doing here, let alone me._

He can leave. Just a quick conjuring and poof—no more Loki. If Odin gets to worked up over it, it’s a simple matter to just come back, search for his idiot brother, and come home. It would be easy. Less messy. He’d still have a chance to prove himself better than Thor for the throne.

But the frustrating thing is, he doesn’t _need_ to prove himself anymore, not when Thor himself has already rejected the crown. So what is Loki then, without his ambition? Without the familiar burn of anger? What was he before he realized how inadequate he was? He doesn’t know. Doesn’t remember.

The door to the Contender’s changing room slides open, and in the dim, flickering light that filters through the cracks of the stadium, Thor...looks strangely like a king.

His hair is cropped short, no longer the long locks of a soldier, but the clean, sharp appearance of a strategist. It makes his brother look fiercer, more mature, but he’s surprised that Thor was willing to part with the hair that marked him a warrior. His brother has also traded his Asgardian royal garb for lighter leathers, leaving his arms bare and only one shoulder donned with a cape. Red lines are drawn vertically across the left side of his face from his hairline to the middle of his neck, imitating dripping blood. It’s a mismatched, unceremonious look, but his brother has never looked more like the warrior king Odin once was, has never exuded _power_ like this before.

Still, Loki has the responsibility of keeping his brother’s ego in check.

“You look like a beggar.”

Thor shoots him a withering look as he straps on two blades to his side. Curiously, Mjolnir is nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s your hammer?”

“I’m not planning to use it.”

Did...did Loki hear that right?

“Run that by me again because it appears my hearing is failing me. You’re not planning to bring Mjolnir, your _best weapon,_ to a battle of life or death?”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Loki,” Thor says, heading towards the gate as the sounds of brawl die down. He rolls his shoulders back and cracks his neck from side to side. “A god is more than just his weapon.”

Before Loki can respond—how oddly _cryptic_ of you, Thor— thunderous applause rises from the outside. A call for blood and violence. The metal gate slides open.

_“-sent to you, the Lord of Thunderrrrr!”_

“Wish me luck, brother.” Thor says, and he steps out into the stadium, an arm raised, his silhouette outlined in the angry red and gold and ice blue of the arena. The metal door shutters shut. The increasing volume of the crowd becomes muted, and Loki is left alone.

“Good luck,” he mutters in the sudden, cloying darkness. How strange, when Loki has always preferred it to light.

He makes his way into the audience, squeezing his way past the roaring spectators. Spit flies through the air as they jeer and howl, eager for bloodshed. He sees Thor has made it into the center of the arena, his blades now extended to their full lengths. His brother has foolishly removed his helmet, left it discarded in the dirt next to him, and the crowd goes wild at the arrogance of it.

Oddly enough, they are all also dressed in shades of blue. Variants of the color, ranging from the near white shade of pure ice to the dark, opaque navy of a brackish sea in storm. Plumes of blue powder explode in the air. Masks of a hideous, horned  monster are donned.

The masks are strangely familiar.

“ _And now, welcome the fan-favorite—“_

From opposite of Thor, ice crawls over the metal gate. It splinters and cracks from some force behind it.

“ _Your reigning champion—_ “

The metal gate shatters as an unnaturally long arm shoots out from the darkness.

_“The terrible,”_

A chill immediately washes over the crowd, and the audience screams in delight. Loki’s stomach drops as red eyes emerge from the pitch black.

_“The relentless,”_

A blue creature steps out. The color of death, of a dark, cold realm. Its features are hideous and grotesque, covered with raised markings. The monster’s mouth stretches into the semblance of a grin as it sees Thor, and _oh Norns_ —

_“The natural enemy of Asgardians—ooh like our Lord of Thunder here!”_

What was a Jotun doing all the way out here?

_“A round of applause for our Frost Giant!_ ”

Oh shit.

 

* * *

 

_Oh_ _shit._

Fate, the cruel maiden, must truly delight in ruining Thor’s day.

Out of all opponents, the Grandmaster’s Champion just had to be a gods-damned _Jotun,_ the only creature in all the Nine Realms that would make this mission just that extra bit more complicated.

Norns, Thor hasn’t even begun to think of how he should broach the sensitive subject with Loki. Really, he was just blessed with bad luck.

A dagger of ice shoots pass his arm, nicking the bare skin above his elbow. The Jotun sneers at him, its eyes alight with amusement as another javelin materializes in its grip.

“Your Majesty,” he croons and there’s a throaty, warbled quality to his voice. “You are far, far away from home.”

Thor rolls to the side as the javelin hurtles towards him, but he isn’t prepared for the barrage of ice that follows it, washing his left side with brittle cold. His leg is encased in a cast of ice, and it crawls flush up his body. A flash of pain bursts at his hip as he attempts to yank his leg out. The Jotun cackles.

“I smell the cursed blood of the Allfather within you, Son of Odin. They call this planet Lawless Sakaar— _Godless_ Sakaar. You are arrogant to have come here.”

Thor splinters the ice with the hilt of his sword and spins out of the way as a flurry of icicles plunge towards him. He doesn’t get a moment to pause as the next wave of the Jotun’s attack is upon him—daggers of ice peppering the ground, licking at his heels with their proximity.

_‘Damn it. I can’t just murder him in cold blood—the mess it will make when I have to talk to Loki,”_  Thor thinks frantically as the edge of the Jotun’s newly crafted blade nearly misses an artery. He dodges another a swing. _‘But what the hell am I supposed to do but kill him?’_ A spear lances past his calf, and Thor winces. ‘ _If I can even manage to kill him.’_

With a flick of his wrist, Thor flips the sword in his hand and plunges it into the Jotun’s thigh. It doesn’t go very far—Jotun’s have skin with the density of an iceberg—and a second later, the giant flings him across the stadium. Thor’s back hits the arena wall like a meteor, denting the surface, and part of the scrap metal rips through his fighting leathers and into his skin. Pain flares from his lower back.  He wheezes from the impact, wipes away the blood that dribbles from the corner of his mouth. The audience roars its pleasure.

Thor charges forward, swords swinging in his grip with deadly grace. There’s a rhythm to it all, and he lets himself fall into the heady dance of battle. The Jotun meets him blow for blow, laughing. With the waft of his hand, a wall of ice forms in the air and presses Thor back, pushes him into the dirt.

“Do you know who I am, Odinson?” The Jotun demands, marching forwards with the slow, deliberate approach of a predator. Its limbs move with fluid grace, stalking towards him with elegant brutality, a power move to remind Thor and the audience that he has all the time in the world to play with his prey. Each step burns the ground beneath it a sooty black. “Years I have spent here, the equivalent of millenia for the rest of the world, and still my power does not dwindle.”

Thor stands. Retracts his swords back into their smaller form. Sheaths them. The air thickens as the Jotun walks closer. There are millions of icy knives floating behind the creature, their sharp points glittering in the white of the stadium lights, and even the audience hushes as the Jotun smiles.

“I am legend,” he says softly. “Ancient and powerful. Your people remember me as Ymir.”

A chill crawls up Thor’s spine at the name. Ymir, the ancestor of all Jotun, a powerful being from the times of Odin’s bloody conquest. Then, anger.

_My father has bested you before. Do you think me a  lesser king?_

“Give my regards to Hela,” the monster says, and with the slightest twitch of a finger, the icicles plummet, an ending move.

“You talk too much,” Thor mutters, scowling. There’s sparks dancing across his knuckles, spiraling at his palms. And the lightning bubbling within his chest, the need for freedom, the anger and grief and anguish that had boiled silently within him—releases.

There’s a crackle of electricity, and the sound of water poured on ice, the sound of shattering glass, fills the arena.

 

“ _Thor!_ ”

 

* * *

 

Death had come swiftly for Valkyrie.

It was but a flash of pain as the spear split through her breastplate, through _her_. She had died happily, having given retribution to the woman that murdered her sisters. Hela was dead, and she, now the sole memento of a time long past, would die with her.

Hell, even her last thought had been a great one, as far as last thoughts go.

_I am ready._

And that was that. All good and dandy. A nice, clean ending to a long, messy life. She was eager for Valhalla, eager to see her sisters once more. To see her lover for blessed eternity.

So why the _fuck_ did she wake up in a time when her family was already dead and Hela was still alive?

“Welcome to Sakaar.” Valkyrie wanted to punch the Grandmaster in the throat.

Out of all times and places for the universe to spit her out in—she lands _here_ ? In stupid, nowhere Sakaar? She can’t even return to Asgard. Why? _Because no one fucking remembers her._

Thor is probably still an arrogant dunce. Loki—Valkyrie doesn’t want anything to do with the complicated mess he is at this point in time. Worst of all, Odin is still alive. She can’t get revenge on Hela even if she wanted to, and the Allfather would sooner use Valkyrie in his army than grant her any wishes.

So what? She’s just stranded here? Waiting for Odin to die, waiting for Thor and Loki to drop out of the Devil’s Anus? Spend another—decade or century? She’s always hated how time flows here—finding contenders for the Grandmaster?

Well, it’s not like she has any better ideas at the moment. What else could she do—kill the Allfather?

Actually, that’s not a bad idea. She considers a plan.

No. No that’s a terrible idea; Odin would smite her on sight. She’s a relic, a reminder that the Allfather is flawed and that Asgard has crumbling bones in its foundations.

Might as well train with some worthy captures this time around. At least the alcohol on Sakaar is always decent.

Really, though. She’s had it to here with Fate.

Her first target: Ymir of Jotunheim.

 

Valkyrie has just settled in Sakaar, hunkered down for the long wait before Thor and Loki arrive with news of Odin’s death, when the air pressure drops. Dark, swollen clouds roll in with a speed too quick for nature, and thunder rumbles like a giants groan.

Lightning strikes. Perfectly center in the Grandmaster’s Arena.

Holy shit. Valkyrie can’t get to her scrapper fast enough.

When she gets there, the first thing she sees is the red cape. The dance of electricity fizzling across the stadium. And _no fucking way_ because this way too early, way too convenient, impossible—but time has always been a strange, fluid thing on Sakaar. Unpredictable in its passing relative to the rest of the universe.

She entertains the thought that maybe this is real, maybe her luck hasn’t truly run out.

But no. That’s impossible. Thor didn’t come until after she captured the Hulk, until after Ymir had been defeated.

Yet, despite knowing this can’t be real, that this must be some stupid trick or mirage, she knows it in her blood that it’s Thor Odinson. The Valkyrie are, after all, first and foremost made to respond to the crown, and that rising in her blood is undeniably for the return of her king.

He’s here—Asgard’s king is _here_. Against all odds, he must have somehow escaped off that treacherous ship and came back for her. Or, Heimdall’s all-seeing vision extends more than just this time line. Or—oh what does it matter at this point? For the second time in her life, Valkyrie is on the brink of tears because of Thor’s kindness.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a quick flash of green and gold. A terrible feeling settles in the pit of her stomach as she identifies the flash as Loki as he leaps out of the audience and into the stadium. Even from up in her scrapper, she can hear the bloodthirsty audience’s joy at this turn of events.

Ymir, the ancestor of all Jotuns, against the future of Asgard? This can’t turn out well.

She sighs, takes a swig out of her flask, and grabs her blade. Smiles.

 

Valkyrie has missed her boys.

 

 


End file.
